Ripper Street

They reached Rochester towards evening, as dusk settled over the ancient town. The railway station greeted them with hollow echoes beneath vaulted ceilings and the smell of coal soot mingled with the damp rising from the River Medway. The sparse passengers hurried off about their business, leaving the platform empty save for a porter dozing by the entrance. “Magnificent,” Abberline grumbled, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets in an attempt to shield himself from the raw wind blowing off the river. “Why is it that every town connected with our investigation looks as though it has been cursed by the Devil himself?” “I should like to believe it mere coincidence,” Raven replied thoughtfully, surveying the gloomy outline of the cathedral rising above the rooftops. “The hour is late; I suggest we concern ourselves with lodgings and pay our visit to the local station in the morning. What say you?” “I say I would give a month's wages for a bowl of meat stew and a pint!” The detective cheered up somewhat, heading toward the cab stand, where several harnessed carriages waited. Their driver — a sullen man of middle years with a face furrowed by wrinkles — remained silent for the entire journey, despite Abberline’s attempts to draw him out, only occasionally coughing and spitting to the side. Only when Abberline inquired where they might best stay did he reluctantly grumble: “The Crown and Anchor on High Street. Clean and cheap enough. Only…” he hesitated, casting a wary glance at his passengers, “you wouldn't be journalists by any chance? Or police?” “Whatever gave you that idea?” Raven asked cautiously. “It's just you're mighty interested in our little town. You see, about five years ago some others came here, sniffing about everywhere, and after…” the cabman spat, “after, it would've been better if they'd never come at all.” Abberline and Raven exchanged glances. “And what happened five years ago?” the detective inquired, affecting as much indifference as possible. “Nothing happened,” the driver cut him off sharply. “And I don’t know a blessed thing about it. Here you are.” The Crown and Anchor proved to be a typical provincial coaching inn — a two-storey building of darkened brick with a sagging sign and windows dulled with grime. The common room smelled of stale beer and tobacco smoke, and the few patrons — local tradesmen and merchants — eyed the newcomers warily. The landlord, a corpulent man in a greasy apron that was quite possibly older than the inn itself, gave them keys to rooms on the second floor and reluctantly agreed to serve supper, but when Abberline casually mentioned that they were interested in the town's history, particularly events from five years past, his face instantly turned to stone. “Nothing special happened then,” he muttered. “Ordinary year. Now if you'll excuse me, I must close up.” Over supper — tough meat with potatoes and a mug of sour ale — they finally managed to discuss their visit to the asylum and their plans for the morrow. “I cannot shake the feeling Charlton told us nowhere near the whole story.” “Scarcely half.” Raven nodded in agreement, attempting to chew a particularly obstinate piece of beef. “Good Lord, I do hope that what I am eating at least mooed when it was alive, and did not caw. As for the doctor of human souls, it is a wonder he agreed to speak with us at all. When the secret service become involved, people grow exceedingly taciturn.” “You think they were somehow involved in Morrow's escape?” “Hardly in the escape itself, but arranging Warwick's quiet removal from the medical academy — that is very much their style. I’d dearly like to give old Ponsonby a thorough questioning, but I doubt he will be inviting me to tea after our recent visit to Gould.” “As if one murderer were not enough for us.” “Oh, come now. Jack merely disembowels his victims alive and hangs their entrails on lamp-posts. He is practically a lamb of God compared to the creatures we risk encountering by digging into Warwick's history.” “That tongue of yours will bring you to the gallows one day, Raven.” “A noose does not suit the colour of my eyes,” the consultant waved dismissively. “By the way, have you noticed the locals’ hospitality? I would wager a pound against a bent penny that the secret service has been at work in this town as well. And yet… that seems not to be the only reason. Even the strictest prohibitions eventually give rise to gossip and those willing to share it, but everyone we have met thus far is clearly frightened of something far more terrifying than the Crown's bloodhounds. It might be worth plying one of the regulars of this cesspit with drink — drunken babble is sometimes more useful than sober lies. Only the ale here would sooner induce vomiting than inebriation.” “Perhaps the local police will agree to assist us, or one of the inspectors will at least hint at whom we might seek for answers. Something else troubles me: do you remember Morrow's last words before his escape? Something about many bodies under a single will. And that thing on Warwick's jacket… Perhaps I am becoming paranoid, but all of this suspiciously resembles something in your line, Raven.” “I wish you were merely being paranoid. But so far there is more devilry in this case than I would care for — and that is coming from a specialist. As for the fibula, the odds, as usual, are fifty-fifty. Either it is a magical artefact, or his great-grandmother had wretched taste in jewellery and passed it on to her descendants.” Abberline laughed. “I am glad I have at least managed to lift your spirits. But for conclusions, alas, we are catastrophically short of facts.” “Well then, let us try to find some tomorrow,” Abberline concluded, wincing as he drained the dregs of his ale. “Go and rest, Edward. Tomorrow will be a long day.” Already ascending the creaking stairs to the second floor, Abberline turned and saw the landlord conversing quietly with someone behind the bar. The conversation ceased immediately the moment the man noticed the detective's gaze. In his room — a cramped little chamber with a single window overlooking a gloomy inner courtyard — Abberline lay awake for a long time. Somewhere below the floorboards creaked, the wind howled beyond the window, and in his mind swarmed thoughts of what secrets this ancient town might be hiding, and why all its inhabitants were so afraid to remember the past. Having tossed and turned for the greater part of the night and ending up more exhausted than before he had lain down in the chill bed that rather resembled a coffin, he finally abandoned all hope of falling into anything resembling sleep and opened his eyes. Beyond the window, dawn was just beginning to break, painting the raw sky in dirty grey tones. The detective reached for his pocket watch — half past six. Too early for breakfast, yet continuing to turn from side to side amid the rustling of mice, the creaking of floorboards, and barely audible conversations had become unbearable. Having washed with cold water from the jug and put himself into some semblance of order, Abberline slowly descended to the common room. To his surprise, Raven was already sitting at a table by the window, looking no less haggard, listlessly poking at a greenish fried egg with his fork and studying a crumpled newspaper. “What is in the news?” “Yesterday's,” Raven waved the front page of the Kent Messenger dated October 28th, rolled it into a tube and tossed it onto the table. “Even the news here is stale. No, this is decidedly intolerable—” he pushed away his plate, “I have heard it said somewhere, Detective, that a true warrior should never breakfast, so as not to lose his vigilance throughout the day.” “I, on the contrary, have read that breakfast is the most important part of the day.” “Risk sampling the local cook's fare, and this part of the day may well become your last. Judging by your appearance, you slept last night no longer than I have been eating this so-called breakfast.” “Is it that obvious?” Abberline tried to smile, but the attempt came out poorly. “I’ve seen corpses with more colour.” “Thank you for the compliment!” The detective lowered himself heavily into the seat opposite Raven and raised his hand to summon the waitress.

***

Abberline did order himself porridge and tea, which proved edible enough, if bland. At the next table two merchants ate their breakfast in silence, casting curious glances at the visitors from time to time. After paying at the bar, Raven waited for Abberline and stepped outside, surveying his surroundings with a gloomy expression: “If the proprietor of this esteemed establishment is to be believed, the police station is about ten minutes' walk. Shall we?” “It can hardly get any worse. Lead the way.” Their path led through the town's main square, deserted at this early hour and as unwelcoming as everything else they had encountered in this place. Once or twice Abberline even fancied they were being watched, but he put this down to lack of sleep and fatigue. Rochester police station was housed in a squat stone building on Corporation Street, next to the town hall. Entering, the detective found the duty constable — a lanky man of about thirty with greasy hair and pockmarks on his cheeks. “Good day. I am Inspector Abberline, and this is my colleague Mr. Raven from Scotland Yard. We need to speak with someone regarding a police matter of the utmost importance.” The constable blinked uncertainly, clearly unaccustomed to visits from high-ranking London policemen. “I… er… I shall fetch Sergeant Holcomb, sir. One moment, please.” He hastily disappeared into the depths of the building, leaving them to wait in a cramped room reeking of tobacco smoke and damp. On the walls hung tattered wanted notices and a portrait of Queen Victoria, listing to one side from age. While they waited, Raven could not resist remarking with a smirk: “I cannot help but notice you have promoted me to your colleague, Inspector. Yesterday I was merely a consultant.” “You show promise, Raven,” Abberline returned the smile, “and were it not for all this mysticism of yours, you could make a splendid career as an investigator.” “I shall consider your offer,” the newly-appointed colleague of the inspector replied gravely, “but a little later, for it seems we have had our answer.” Heavy footsteps sounded from the corridor, and the duty sergeant appeared — an elderly man with grey moustaches and weary eyes who was initially quite welcoming toward the visitors from London. “Scotland Yard? Well I never!” He examined their credentials with interest. “Sergeant Holcomb at your service. How may I help?” “We are interested in events from five years ago,” Abberline began. “A certain incident, possibly connected with a disappearance or death…” The sergeant's face instantly darkened, and the friendly smile vanished without a trace. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he cut in. “Everything was quiet here in 1883. You may examine the reports yourself if you wish.” “We should be most grateful,” Raven smiled politely. Holcomb reluctantly led them to the archive room — a confined little space crammed with folders and boxes of documents. The incident logs for 1883 proved surprisingly sparse: a few cases of drunkenness, petty thefts, one barn fire. No mention whatsoever of serious incidents, mysterious deaths, or escapes from asylums. “Too tidy,” Abberline muttered, leafing through the pages. “As if someone scrubbed the year off the record.” “Or rewritten the lot,” added Raven. “Have you ever seen police records so neat, and all written with the same pen in the same hand at that?” When they returned to the sergeant, he was already preparing to leave. “I can be of no further help, gentlemen. Duty calls.” “And who was your superior in 1883?” asked Abberline. “Inspector Turner. But he died two years ago. Heart gave out.” “Were there any constables among those who worked here at that time?” Holcomb paused, weighing his answer. “No, sir. Ours is a small station, gentlemen, nothing like Scotland Yard. Young men work here only until they can start a family or find work in a larger city. The constables who served here five years ago have long since scattered and are unlikely to be of use in your investigation. Good day, gentlemen.” With these words he left, leaving the London detectives alone with their questions.

***

“Astonishing unprofessionalism!” Abberline continued to fume once they had left the station and found themselves on the street again. “And the local sergeant? To think of it, simply up and leaving! Had we not so little time, I would not have hesitated to go straight to the local superintendent!” “A waste of effort,” Raven shook his head. “I am beginning to think we are approaching this entire situation quite the wrong way.” He paused, surveying the town square onto which small traders were beginning to wheel their carts. “But I believe I have an idea. What would you say to my suggestion that we become better acquainted with the individual who has been following us since the tavern?” “Damn it all, so I was not imagining things? I confess I thought the lack of sleep had brought on paranoia!” “Not in the least.” The consultant gave a slight shake of his head and lowered his gaze, pretending to be very occupied with searching for something in his pockets. “And if you now look carefully at the bakery stall to our left, you will be able to make out a youth who is so thoroughly engrossed in his own affairs and so studiously not looking in our direction that I am beginning to fear his gaze will burn a hole through my cloak.” “Grey cap, checked waistcoat, about fifteen years of age?” Abberline turned cautiously. “Yes, I remember — he was hanging about on the other side of the road when we were walking to the station. Have you a plan?” “Yes, follow me!” Breaking abruptly into motion, Raven flew down the police station steps, heading for one of the narrow alleyways between the houses. Following him, Abberline soon found himself in a tiny back courtyard of one of the houses. Here, strung between the windows, someone's laundry was drying — or rather, growing damper — and nearby lay a washtub and a bucket one-third full of dirty rust-coloured water. “This way!” came Raven's voice from somewhere to the side. The consultant had positioned himself behind a small wooden shed where, in all probability, the local caretaker stored his brooms and shovels. Pressing a finger to his lips, he beckoned the detective toward him. Crouching in the shadow beside his partner, Abberline felt the cold from the damp bricks seeping through his coat. Somewhere above, a window frame creaked, and a woman's voice grumbled something discontented about “vagrants of all sorts.” “You go left, I go right. On my signal…” whispered Raven. Half a minute later a shadow flickered in the alleyway, after which the familiar figure in the grey cap appeared. The youth was creeping cautiously along the wall, stopping now and then to listen. Reaching the point where the alley widened, he hesitated, evidently having lost the trail. “Now!” Raven sprang from concealment, running ahead, while Abberline dashed in the opposite direction, cutting off the boy's retreat. Seizing the lad by the lapel of his waistcoat, the consultant yanked him close with a single motion, simultaneously moving from the courtyard back into the passage between the houses, depriving any curious neighbours of the chance to observe the proceedings. Slamming the frightened boy against the brick wall none too gently, so that he even let out a yelp as his head struck the surface, the consultant waited for Abberline to approach. “Well then, let us get acquainted! Who are you?” “Tom, sir,” the boy stammered, gazing in terror at the two grown men. “Tom Blake. I didn't mean any harm!” “No one ever does, as a rule.” Raven remarked, somewhat beside the point. “Harm usually manages on its own.” “And no one is accusing you of anything,” Abberline added reassuringly. “We are simply curious why you have been following us since this morning.” Tom squirmed, trying to free himself. “My… grandmother asked me to.” Raven gave a snort but did not, however, relax his grip: “That is something new. And why would a spry old lady need to have the police watched?” “You're from the police?” Tom's eyes went wide with horror, and he ceased all attempts to break free. “I'm ever so sorry! I… I didn't know! You're from London, aren't you? I know all the local bobbies!” “Enough babbling — let us have it straight!” Raven cut off the boy's torrent of words. “Y-yes, of course! I… My grandmother asks me to watch all the strangers who come to town. She's… odd. And after she went blind, it got worse. Usually I hang about the station or do odd jobs at the docks so I don't have to sit at home, and yesterday I saw you by the train and decided that… Well, here we are,” the would-be spy concluded awkwardly. “And what is your grandmother's name, Tom?” “Bridget O'Malley, sir.” “The thing is, we are investigating a very important case and require information concerning the town's history. Do you think Bridget would agree to help us?” “She was born in Rochester, gentlemen. Only… I don't know if she'll want to talk to you.” “Yes, we have already had ample opportunity to appreciate that charming trait of the local inhabitants,” Raven rolled his eyes and finally released his hand, ceasing to restrain the boy. “But since she sent you to follow us, it would only be fair for her to agree to answer a few of our questions, would it not?” Tom nodded uncertainly, still rubbing his bruised shoulder. “You can try, gentlemen. Only…” he hesitated, “only I warn you straight off: grandmother can be sharp. And she doesn't like surprises.” “Then you shall escort us and give her warning of our visit,” Abberline decided. “For good payment, naturally.” The boy's eyes lit up. “For a shilling I'll take you there! And I'll tell her you're not just any old rogues but real gentlemen from Scotland Yard!” “Agreed,” Raven nodded.

***

The journey to Bridget O'Malley's house took about half an hour. Tom led them along winding paths beside the River Medway, past listing fishermen's huts and thickets of willow. The air grew ever damper and heavier, and a dense fog hung over the water. “See the bridge?” Tom pointed to an old stone crossing, blackened by time and overgrown with moss. “Beyond it begins the old cemetery. And grandmother's house is right by the fence.” Crossing the bridge, they did indeed see an ancient graveyard with listing headstones, many of which had almost disappeared beneath growths of ivy and nettles. And at the very edge of the cemetery, as though rising from the fog, stood a small cottage with walls and roof blackened by rain and overgrown with moss. Fumbling about, Tom produced a heavy key from his pocket and ran ahead to unlock the front door, which opened with a positively biblical creak. Reaching the threshold, Raven suddenly stopped and sniffed the air, then inquired: “By the way, Tom, what does your grandmother do?” “She's a midwife, sir. Helps the women in town give birth and treats all manner of ailments.” “Oh, does she indeed?” The consultant bestowed upon Tom the most charming smile of which he was capable. “In that case, may we be permitted to enter, young man?” “Y-yes, of course,” the boy mumbled, slightly puzzled by the question, and stepped aside from the passage. “Splendid!” The consultant ducked to avoid striking his head on the low lintel and surveyed his surroundings with interest. The midwife's house looked most unusual: inside, nearly all the walls were hung with bunches of herbs strung on cords to dry. Here and there among them could be seen various trinkets fashioned from string and feathers, and symbols scrawled in chalk. Entering, Abberline also noticed that the entire threshold and door frame had been covered with symbols crudely carved directly into the wood. Their silent tour was interrupted by the crash of the door slamming shut and the displeased muttering that followed from somewhere beyond the wall. “Who have you dragged in there, you wretched boy?!” The creaking voice from the room adjacent to the entrance hall made Tom start violently: “We have guests, Gran! They're gentlemen from the police! They've come to ask a few questions.” “Good day,” Abberline called out uncertainly, not entirely sure whom he was addressing. “We apologise for the intrusion, but we really do need your help!” “Devil take you,” the old woman creaked. “Thomas, you wretch, help me to the table!” From the depths of the house came the shuffling of feet, and in the doorway appeared a hunched figure in a dark dress. Bridget O'Malley moved slowly, feeling the wall with a bony hand, her face half-hidden by a kerchief tied over her eyes. Tom rushed to her, offering his shoulder for support. “Careful, Gran,” he fussed. “Here's the chair, sit down.” The old woman lowered herself onto a wooden seat at a massive oak table covered with stains from herbs and various potions. Her blind face turned toward the guests, and Abberline felt as though she could see right through him. “Policemen, is it?” “From London,” the consultant confirmed. “But of course, where else would you be from…” Bridget snorted contemptuously. “You have come to my house unbidden!” “The house does not think so,” Raven replied with a smirk — a strange answer that somewhat disconcerted Abberline, who was struggling to follow the thread of the conversation. The old woman jerked as though struck. For a moment silence hung in the room, broken only by the crackling of dying embers in the hearth. “Thomas, fetch wood for the fire!” she barked at last. “Yes, Gran!” The old woman's gnarled, wrinkled finger pointed at Abberline: “And you help him!” The detective hesitantly obeyed, having noticed an almost imperceptible nod from Raven, and headed toward a small shed in the inner courtyard after Tom, who seemed only too glad to escape the house. Left alone with Raven, the old woman unexpectedly straightened, turning her head as though she could see him, then spat angrily on the floor: “What do you want, fox?” “Precisely what I said,” the consultant remarked insinuatingly. “Take it off.” As if against her will, the old woman's hand reached toward her head and pulled the kerchief from her long grey hair that had covered the upper part of her face. Beneath the cloth, in the dim light from the window, ugly ragged scars became visible at once, running across her forehead and down her cheeks to empty eye sockets that stared directly at Raven. “You gouged them out yourself,” he said — not asking, but stating. “With scissors, I would guess? It does not look like a knife's work.” “Knitting needles,” Bridget snarled. “Swear you will not harm Thomas!” “You will tell us everything we need to know,” Raven pronounced. “After which we shall depart peacefully, as befits guests. And everyone shall live happily ever after.” “We're back!” The front door creaked, revealing Abberline and Tom in the doorway with armfuls of crooked, knotted logs. Bridget hastily pulled the kerchief back over her face, hiding the mutilated eye sockets, and pointed to the hearth: “Put them on the fire. It's grown cold in here.” Tom obediently set about laying the wood, trying not to look toward the guests. Abberline noticed how the boy's hands trembled — evidently he could sense the tension in the air. “Well then,” the old woman creaked when the flames had grown brighter, casting dancing shadows on the walls. “Speak, what is it you want to know, since you've come.” “We are interested in the events of October 1883,” Abberline began cautiously. “None of the inhabitants, it seems, wish to remember it. There is not a word in the police archives, as though someone deliberately erased all the records.” Bridget laughed bitterly: “As if anything would be left there! Men in black uniforms came then, took away all the papers, frightened all the witnesses. And those they couldn't frighten — they slipped money to.” “Wait a moment,” Abberline frowned, “I do recall something of the sort. The papers wrote about some Rochester dances! But that turned out to be a journalistic invention?” “When the Crown's bloodhounds put the squeeze on, worse things than that'll seem like inventions!” the old woman snarled angrily. “But I know the truth, and I don't give a damn about the 'specials' and their orders!” Raven leaned forward: “Then tell us that truth, Bridget. What happened then?” The old woman was silent for a long while, merely rocking back and forth in her chair. Then she sighed heavily: “Two men came to town… gentlemen, as they called themselves. One was truly of noble birth, a doctor of some sort, and the other… A half-mad spawn, that's what he was! They came here in the summer, took the old manor by the cemetery and started snooping about everywhere. Said they were studying local history. Hah, as if I'd believe that…” she spat toward the hearth, “the Devil alone knows what they were really doing there.” “You took an immediate dislike to them, I see?” Abberline asked quietly. “And rightly so! Never seen any good come from our kind!” “Kind?” the detective repeated, puzzled. “But do go on. What happened next?” “On the night of October 31st the whole town went mad. It started at the Crown — the men suddenly started dancing, like they'd gone rabid. Not an ordinary jig, but something wild, heathen. Twisting their arms, tossing their heads, screaming gibberish. And then the madness spread through the whole town like a plague.” Bridget shuddered, drawing her shawl more tightly about her. “Women came running out of their houses, barefoot on the cobblestones. Children fled from their parents. Even the priest came running out of the cathedral and started spinning like a top in the middle of the graveyard, tore his cassock to shreds. They were all moving in one direction — toward the old house where those two had set up.” “How long did it last?” asked Raven, genuine interest in his voice. “Until dawn. And when the sun rose, everyone just collapsed, like they'd been cut down. Lay on the ground as if dead. By morning they woke at the ruins. Turns out the doctor had stabbed his partner, knocked over the kerosene lamp and run out of the house. All they found under the rubble was a corpse with a hole in its heart. What was left of it. But I didn't see that myself…” The old woman passed her hand over her face, as though brushing away invisible tears. “And then what?” “Nothing! The lawmen came to town, made out that doctor to be some kind of hero. Supposedly he'd apprehended a dangerous escapee. Only he knew it was a lie, and everyone around knew it, so he upped and left town, vanished without a trace. They had a talk with the people, saying it was some spiritualist nonsense, go on home and keep quiet about it — but you don't jump out of windows and throw yourself under horses' hooves from hysteria!” Tom went pale: “Gran, maybe you shouldn't…” “Quiet!” Bridget snapped at him. “Tom I managed to save, paid my price for it, but his parents I couldn't—” She touched the kerchief over her eyes. “Since that night, all those who woke up by the burnt manor have never known peace. Those who could — left. And the rest… they didn't last long either.” A heavy silence fell over the house, broken only by the crackling of logs in the hearth. Tom pressed himself against the wall, clearly wishing to become invisible, while Bridget sat motionless, as though having spoken, she had suddenly aged ten years. “Thank you for your candour,” Raven finally said, stepping away from the hearth. “We shall trouble you no further.” “And a good thing too,” the old woman muttered, not turning her head toward them. “Off with you, quickly!” Abberline took several coins from his pocket and handed them to Tom: “Here is your shilling, lad. And a couple more besides — for taking such good care of your grandmother.” The boy's eyes lit up, but he looked uncertainly at Bridget. “Take it,” she said curtly. “Only not a word to anyone about what was said here. Otherwise you'll bring trouble on yourself and on me.” “Yes, Gran,” Tom nodded hastily, pocketing the coins. Leaving the house, Abberline felt as though an invisible weight had fallen from his shoulders. The air outside seemed fresher, and the grey sky less gloomy. “Quite a story,” he murmured when they had walked a fair distance from the cottage. “If that woman is to be believed, our chief suspect Morrow has been dead for five years.” “And you do not believe her?” Raven inquired, adjusting his cloak collar. “An ideal eyewitness, in my view.” “Your sense of humour, as ever, is impeccable,” the detective grimaced. “Honestly, I do not know what to believe. Mass dancing, ritual murders, mystical battles between mages… Perhaps something truly terrible did happen here, but surely there must be a rational explanation. Ergot poisoning, for example, or mass hysteria. And as for the murder, it is quite possible that Morrow's madness returned at some point and Warwick was forced to defend himself, after which he fled.” “And where might he have gone?” asked Raven. “Five years have passed, Detective. If Warwick is alive, then where is he? Why is he silent?” “Perhaps he left the country. Or changed his name and lives somewhere in the wilds.” Abberline stopped on the bridge, gazing at the murky waters of the Medway. “Or perhaps he too was killed by those 'specials'. Loose ends tidied up, no witnesses.” “Too many 'perhaps' and 'possibly',” Raven observed. “Although I confess I have nothing more worthwhile to offer you.” The journey to the station took about an hour. Tom accompanied them all the way to the railway station, chattering about local landmarks and clearly enjoying his role as a well-paid guide. At the platform they bade farewell to the boy, and he, waving to them, dissolved into the crowd of local inhabitants. “Back there, at Bridget's house, you behaved very strangely,” said Abberline when the train had gathered speed and familiar landscapes began flashing past the windows. “Might I ask what all that was about?” “A formality,” Raven replied, as though reluctantly. “A ritual. One cannot simply walk into a witch's house.” “Good Lord, there you go again,” Abberline rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Did I get distracted and miss a magical battle between two sorcerers?” “In a manner of speaking. I merely invoked a little rule she couldn’t refuse, compelling her to tell the truth. One cannot go against a guest’s request. But now we know for certain what happened.” “And we have neither a witness nor a suspect,” the detective remarked bitterly. “This is a catastrophe, Raven! Morrow is dead, Warwick has vanished without a trace, and another murder is merely a matter of time. What am I to report to the Commissioner? That our investigation has led us to a dead end of mystical fairy tales?” “We still have the possibility of deciphering Gould's book,” Raven noted, not taking his gaze from the window. “And do not be hasty, Frederick. Perhaps there are leads; we simply do not see them yet.” On the journey back from the town they rode in silence. Conversation would not flow, and a thick, tense quiet hung in the compartment. Abberline was making some notes, probably a report for the Commissioner, but judging by how often the detective stopped mid-sentence and began crossing out what he had just written, finding the right words was proving extremely difficult and looked an almost hopeless task.